A State of Grace
by serpentineinfinity
Summary: Unwillingly forced into an arranged marriage by her parents, Elsa is left to cope with the memories she has of the Polish exchange student, Anna, with whom she shared a college semester...and so much more. AU. Elsa's POV. Set in the future(ish). Eventual Elsanna
1. Chapter 1

I am at home on the couch. Nonchalantly watching a random reality TV show as my dog sits on my lap. He's a husky named Marshmallow (clearly this was not my decision). And he's easily too big to fit the entire length of himself on my lap. But it's a bit difficult to do anything about it when he still seems to think he can get away with being a lap dog. And, of course, today I get his rear end and obnoxious tail in my face instead of his head, which is resting on nothing less than the pillow. He's out cold—with the exception of the occasional twitching of the nose.

But despite this, I enjoy his presence, although I am much more of a cat person. And, even better yet, I am enjoying the quiet. It is something that I am rarely able to have around the house, but it seems as if, somehow, some way, something has finally aligned in my favor.

Suddenly, however, Marshmallow jumps up and begins to bark, very ungracefully using my lap as a spring board as he vaults himself through the air to fling himself at the very mysterious (and most likely invisible) threat that he thinks he has heard this time.

I am about to tell him to be quiet, but then remain silent. My six year old daughter has just flown into the room, her feet sliding to a halt on the wooden floorboards beneath us.

Marshmallow still causing a ruckus, Anna exclaims, "Mama I found your pearl necklace—and I wanted to try it on with my dress for the New Year's party!"

Inwardly, I sigh. She shouldn't be able to get away with these acts anymore. Yes, dress up is a fine game to play, but she shouldn't be going through my things without permission. It makes me wonder why she was even in my room to begin with. But the look of pure delight in her eyes as she twirls, her brown curls bouncing this way and that, is something I don't want to wreck.

Because, frankly, it reminds me of something.

_Red hair._

And her shining green eyes.

_Blue eyes._

I snap out of it instantaneously, and say, "Anna, you look beautiful. Maybe we'll think about getting you your very own in the next couple of years."

But I've said that before.

_You look beautiful_.

I know I have.

Now Anna's face lights up even more. The more excited she gets, the more and more I seem to remember again…

* * *

_Red hair._

_Blue eyes._

_Winter. Snow._

_Polish. _

_Chocolate?_

_Spinning._

_Dancing, but I don't dance._

_'__You look beautiful.'_

* * *

It is only Anna's voice that jolts me back to reality, "I'll be so pretty, maybe I'll even meet someone. He'll ask me to dance," she clasps her hands with delight.

What has happened to my parenting skills? She's too young to be thinking about such things. I play along anyway, but I've only succeeded, it seems, in coming halfway back to the present day. And it shows: "He will be a very lucky boy….or she will be a very lucky girl."

"What do you mean—she?" Anna wrinkles her nose.

At her words, I blink in shock. Had I really just said that? I could have sworn it was only a thought.

_That's something she would have done._

Why are memories suddenly attacking me from every corner?

* * *

_Blue eyes._

_Wide._

_'__Did I say that out loud?'_

_'__Yeah.'_

_A blush that matches the hue of red hair._

* * *

Focus.

I need to focus.

Anna. My daughter. I need to explain myself now.

"Anna, why not? You can dance with anyone you want. Love anyone you want."

"You love Papa," she argues.

"Yes," I say.

"Papa is a boy."

"Yes."

"But you could love a girl?"

"Yes," I say, without hesitation.

"Then you don't love Papa?"

The words hang in the air for a moment. The seemingly most innocent of words, strung together so precisely, hit me like a slap in the face. Who was this life lesson for again?

"Oh, Anna, come here," I say, holding my arms out and enveloping her in a hug, "Of course I love your Papa. When….you're older you'll know what I mean."

But do I?

_Red hair._

Do I even know what I mean?

_Blue eyes._

I had been so certain that I had been able to conceal it all.

_'__Beautiful.'_

But these memories…they're going to be the death of me. I know it.

I hold onto Anna for a few seconds longer than usual, although she doesn't seem to notice. While she is oblivious to it, her words make something snap inside of me. Something that I've worked long and hard to mend, to store away, to put back together without it falling apart again.

And it's been….okay, recently. I can't say good, because that wouldn't be the truth. But it's been okay.

And now….now it's not.

Because a little piece of it—and me—has just shattered.

And from the opening now leaks a small tear, which I need those few extra seconds to wipe away.

* * *

**A/n: Well, first and foremost, I don't own Frozen. Second, it's my first fanfic, so that's exciting….And third just thought I'd clear it up in case you haven't caught on (although you most likely have)—normal text is present day, and italics is her memories of the past. Chapters are meant to be short/angsty(ish) but I have big plans for where it's headed. **

**Thanks for reading :) **


	2. Chapter 2

It's been a year, and it's the middle of winter. And by the looks of this Wednesday morning's three inches of snow and counting, I highly doubt Anna is going to school today.

"Snow day! Snow day!" Anna cries repeatedly in an elated sing-song voice as she rushes downstairs.

I haven't even woken her up, yet here she comes, careening into the kitchen, Marshmallow tagging playfully at her heels, only stopping when she reaches the window. And I am just about to tell her that no one knows for sure if school is cancelled, when I get the alert on my phone—no school.

A snow day it will be.

I show her the message and she jumps up and down, causing our already wound-up husky to go the slightest bit more insane.

"Can I go outside and play?" Anna asks, already bounding towards the door. In nothing but her pajamas.

Guess she takes after me.

"Only after you eat. And change," I say.

I have never seen my daughter eat anything more quickly. And what impresses me the most is that she doesn't even wait for me to get anything for her; instead she flies to the pantry, grabs the only accessible box of cereal (meaning the frosted flakes on the third shelf, since she can reach no higher), stands on her toes to get herself a bowl, and then the cereal is barely in that bowl for a minute before it's finished.

"Now can I go?" she asks.

"Change first," I remind her, shaking my head.

She's so very enthusiastic…

And it reminds me.

Again…

* * *

_Wonder._

_Awe._

_Like that of a child, but plastered onto her face._

_And she's no child._

_But she acts like she is, quite a bit._

_While it should really infuriate me sometimes, and annoy me others, it never fails to amuse me. _

_Never…_

* * *

I snap out of it immediately. I can't let myself go there again. No. Not happening.

I am suddenly battling with my mind to see what is in front of me, and what my mind _thinks _I want to see.

What I want to see is not what I need to see.

And what I need to see…I need to see it _now_.

But thankfully, I don't have to fight with myself for long.

Because here comes Anna, running back into the kitchen, rushing to the closet to pull out her bright purple winter coat. And next are the boots, which I have to help her lace up. I make her wear her scarf and her hat and her gloves, although she protests slightly. Then I see her out the door; I am perfectly content to keep an eye on her from inside. We have a fence, and I send Marshmallow out with her, knowing that he'll be able to keep her company.

And I resent the fact that her father has insisted on going in to work today. He could have gone out there with her. He could have tried. Actually spent time with her. But he thinks that driving an hour to work in the snow is better than staying here. I know it. And a lot of the time, I couldn't agree more.

But I'm not allowed to think like this.

Neither is he, really.

But at this point, the unspoken messages are mutual; this arranged marriage was doomed to fail from the start. And the only reason I do it is for my daughter. She's the only reason this life is manageable.

The only reason I shut away everything that has ever made me happy.

And this is what frustrates me the most—my daughter makes me happy. She does. She really, _truly _does.

Watching her play and learn and grow is something that is beautiful; but it also reminds me of what I can never have.

I do this all the time—think too much.

She always used to tell me that.

* * *

_We're sitting in class. And I'm staring at this problem for what feels like an eternity, effectively doing a better job of twirling my pencil through the tip of my single blonde braid than I am of writing with it. _

_It's calculus. _

_I'm good at calculus._

_But I can't solve the problem—and it frustrates me beyond belief._

_'__It's simple,' she says, lips curving into a smile as she shows me her answer, but refuses to show me how she got it, 'I can help you with it, if you want.'_

_Those are my words—the words I say to her whenever _she _can't solve the problem. _

_She's teasing me._

_Thoroughly enjoying the fact that, while I currently achieve much better grades than she does, she can solve this problem while I can't. _

_And she brings a hand up to one of her two matching braids._

_It's brief, but I catch it; she's unsure that she should be so openly mocking me. Although it's not intended to be mean, she feels as though she's challenging me; overstepping her bounds._

_But I'm not mad. _

_I don't think I could ever be mad at her._

_Instead I play along and ask her for help—because, really, what else am I going to do, anyway? I'm a perfectionist. I need to get this answer._

_And so she shows me—that I'm going about it all wrong. _

_'__You think too much,' she says, showing me her work, 'All you need to do is rearrange the equation. And once you do that, you can solve the problem.'_

_'__Oh,' I feel slightly embarrassed. _

_Because it is a simple problem._

_Once I can see it differently._

* * *

I wish I could do that with life.

Rearrange it.

Take out the places and memories and people I don't want, and replace them with those that I do want, all the while keeping what I like about _now_, stable.

But people will never be as simple as numbers. Because there's more to the equation.

Emotion.

Something I am terrible at both expressing and hiding, which leaves me feeling a bit stranded sometimes…

In the silence of the house, with only the clock ticking and my own thoughts to infiltrate my mind, I suddenly regret sending Marshmallow out with Anna. If he were in here, he probably would have been at my feet.

_No he'd be on your lap_.

Because, unlike everyone else in the house, he seems to sense when I'm feeling off. When I'm….not okay, he comforts me. And even though I _tell _him a million times that I am a cat person and that his massive head and slobbering tongue don't really change anything, I'm fairly positive that a cat would just turn the other way.

Suddenly, though, I hear a door open, and the scrambling of nails against the floor, and am definitely confused as to why my prayer seems to be answered. Although looking at my mess of a husky, soaking wet with snow hanging off of him, it seems as though I have spoken too soon. I watch, unable to do anything but groan as he ducks his head—_on the carpet, yet!_—and beings shaking himself off, snow and melted water flying in every direction.

_It will dry_, I tell myself, attempting to remain calm. _It will dry_.

And then right after Marshmallow comes Anna, not having bothered to take off her boots before running into the room, making just as much of a mess as the dog.

"Had enough of the cold for one day?" I ask, but I am unable to keep myself from smiling at her bright pink cheeks and the radiant smile of her own.

"Actually, I wanted to know if you'd come build a snowman with me."

I freeze.

Her words are so innocent.

But they're a dagger, and I know it. And it pains me to do it. I don't _want _to do it. Not anymore…But how can I look my seven year old daughter in the eye and tell her I won't build a snowman with her?

It's simple.

I can't.

"Sure," I say.

And just like that, I'm being dragged outside, Marshmallow once again tagging along.

And when my hands hit the snow, the iciness that chills me is as sudden and abrupt as the memory that follows.

I can't say no to my daughter.

And I couldn't say no to her.

* * *

_A snowman is sitting in the middle of the snow-covered campus quad._

_At eight in the morning on a Friday, when the rest of the student body is sane and sleeping._

_And there are footprints._

_Her footprints._

_Our footprints._

_Tangled together in a million different patterns around that snowman._

_Its name is Olaf—very mature of us to be naming a snowman, and building one in the middle of the college campus where we are supposed to be learning how to act like adults, but oh well. _

_Normally I wouldn't be doing this kind of thing but…with her I feel like I can do just about anything._

_And I also feel like I should be cold._

_Freezing._

_Because I've only got a sweat shirt and sweat pants thrown over my pajamas…_

_Oh._

_And her coat._

_That's what it is. _

_That's why I feel warm._

_I'm wearing her coat._

_And there's…chocolate._

* * *

Chocolate?

* * *

_There's definitely chocolate; it's in her hand._

_She tells me how much she loves it—that it's her favorite food._

_Well, that, and sandwiches._

_She offers me some, and it's delicious._

_She says she brought it with her from home; it's the real deal._

_Not the sugar-loaded stuff that's mass produced with brand names._

_And we sit there side by side, just the two of us, talking, staring at this snowman, in the middle of the snow, and I notice the way her hair glows in the sun, and I love the way she laughs._

_I do._

_I love her laugh and I love making her laugh._

* * *

Anna laughs when Marshmallow tries to eat the carrot that she has found for the snowman's nose.

"Now he's perfect," she says, stepping back to admire our work.

I must say, for being out of practice all these years, I've done a pretty good job (considering I had to make most of the body, and Anna's primarily done the decorating).

"He looks very nice," I say, "But you've been out here for a while. Why don't we head inside and warm up?"

Anna grins, "Okay. We can play a game. Or watch a movie."

"And I think someone needs to eat lunch first, am I right?"

"Yeah," Anna says.

We go back into the house, and suddenly, I have the urge to do something that I haven't done in a long time: make hot chocolate.

I usually can't bring myself to do it.

Can't bring myself to have any chocolate at all, really.

But Anna is delighted when I mention it, and so I make two mugs, and when it's finished I hand her one.

I stare at the snowman we've made, and take a sip.

And I'm reminded of _why _I haven't had chocolate.

Commercial brand.

It's too sweet.

Sickeningly sweet.

But I choke it down, and wonder if it just might assault my senses enough to forget about the memory I am desperately trying not to compare it to.

* * *

**A/n: So, Chapter 2. Longer than the first one….but oh well :) This one was fun to write. I really enjoy tying her memories into the present, and exploring the connection between the two.**

**Also a quick side note: I was able to get this chapter out a lot sooner than anticipated solely due to the fact that I already had it planned out along with Chapter 1.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

Now it's three years later.

Anna's successfully gotten that pearl necklace she wanted from all those years ago. I know my daughter has a fairly good memory, but really? She picks that to remember, yet still struggles with multiplication times tables?

It's not that I'm really strict with her grades. It's not 'get an A or you're grounded'. But still, she could be doing better. And I make a mental note that it's something that I need to discuss with her sometime soon.

I mean, it's something that her father could discuss with her, too. But he's not around much, anymore. He spends way too much time out of the house—so much so that chauffeuring Anna to various extracurricular activities, to appointments, to friends' houses, and to school when she misses the bus, have all become responsibilities that have fallen to me.

And I work, too. For the same business. Our business.

He could at least try.

I hate him sometimes. I really do. And it wasn't always like that. We used to get along.

Then…it was manageable; just a thing. A thing that I could live with. Or that I thought I could live with…but it's _not_. It's just _not _anymore.

It's not okay.

I can't even talk about this thing that's supposed to be 'family.'

_Family_.

God, even that makes me remember.

* * *

_'__I know I talk a lot about my family,' she says to me, 'but you never talk about yours.'_

_We're sitting in her dorm room, while her roommate is out, watching a movie that I've seen a million times over._

_But that's okay…because I'm not really paying attention to it anyway._

_Neither is she, apparently._

_'__There's nothing really to say,' I tell her._

_'__Sure there is,' she says, 'What are your parents like? Do you have any brothers? Sisters?' _

_'__I'm an only child,' I say. It's the one question I answer._

_'__Do…you not get along with your parents?'_

_All that I hear is the movie, but what I see before me has nothing to do with the words that echo in the background. _

_And I'm not looking at her, but I feel her eyes on me. She really wants to know. _

_But I don't know if I can do this._

_Admit it. _

_She's waiting…_

_'__They're strict,' I tell her, 'They control my life. And…they care about their business.'_

_'__Oh,' she says, 'So they expect you to take it over?'_

_'__Yes.'_

_I'm silent after that._

_'__But…'_

_'__What?' I ask._

_There's more to it, and she knows it. _

_I know it._

_'__But. There's more,' she says. _

_'__Yes.'_

_'__And?'_

_I can't just not tell her. _

_For some reason, I don't want to tell her. _

_But…I do._

_'__They want the business to stay in the family. And they're only going to have someone who they approve of become a part of it. So along with every other thing in my life that they've set up and arranged…they've decided who I'm spending the rest of my life with.'_

_I hope it comes out more sarcastic if I don't actually say 'arranged marriage'. Because I don't think I can say it seriously without feeling the need to cry._

_Or punch whatever is closest to me._

_And I can't hurt her like that._

_God._

_I think I've already hurt her._

_Her face, and her shoulders…she does this thing where she looks like she really _has _been slapped._

_But it's only for a brief moment._

_And then she recovers and just simply says, 'Oh.'_

_But it sounds dejected._

_Deflated._

_And in the moment I can't even figure out why._

* * *

The dog is barking maniacally.

"_Marshmallow_! Be quiet!"

And then I laugh.

I laugh because it hurts.

And because of my life.

This life.

I can't even keep a straight face when I yell at my dog because of his name. Who tells marshmallows to shut up?

I think I've lost it.

But when he doesn't stop, that's when I realize.

It's three, and Anna's home. And the dog's good for something—he heard the bus.

I open the door, ready to put my misery aside and ask my daughter how her day was, when I see that she's in tears. Maybe it's parental instinct, but I have a feeling I already know the answer to my unspoken question.

What a sight we are.

Her pitiful display is everything that I feel.

But I can't feel; not like this. I won't allow it.

No more about me—I need to know what's wrong.

"Anna, what happened?" I ask, pulling her into a hug.

"Sophie and Claire," she whimpers, barely able to speak, "They told me they won't be friends with me anymore…" she sniffles here, before continuing, "...because I wanted to play football with the boys at recess."

Fifth grade girls; the prerequisites to dealing with middle school cliques and up.

Part of me wants to strangle my daughter's so called 'best friends'. Anna can play whatever sport she'd like. But any ideas of strangling are out of the question, clearly. And, knowing the nature of mean girls—it's not until they reach middle school that they turn on you and never look back. So by tomorrow, all will be well.

I can only hope.

Instead of relaying my internal monologue to my still-crying daughter, I tell her, "Anna, you can play whatever sport you want. Don't let them tell you what you can and can't do. I promise, it's going to get better."

I've been avoiding making promises. For a long time now. So I really hope that this is one that I can keep.

"But what if it doesn't?" Anna sobs again.

And then something snaps in me.

The crying.

Her tears.

"Annika," I say, "If it doesn't, then Sophie and Claire aren't worth your time."

_Annika_.

* * *

_We're in my dorm room._

_She's crying._

_And she won't stop._

_I knew it was bothering her. I knew it as soon as it happened._

_And I still don't know what to do; how to comfort her._

_I'm laying back on my pillows._

_She's sitting at the foot of the bed._

_And seeing her like this is killing me._

_'__I'm sorry,' I tell her, not knowing what else to say, 'We should have just gone to see a movie or something.'_

_And for the first time all night, she looks at me._

_Actually looks at me._

_'__Don't blame yourself. I had a great time. The mall was amazing. I just…I miss home, that's all.'_

_There's a pause._

_'__Don't let them get to you, okay?' I say._

_She knows exactly what I'm talking about._

_And she can't deny it, even though I know she wants to._

_'__You're right. I'm in college. I'm nineteen. I shouldn't be acting like this. Shouldn't let a jerk group of teenage boys make me cry.'_

_I instantly grow bitter, my back rigid as I sit up, eyes narrowing slightly; an almost defensive position, 'They were more than jerks. They were freaking a—'_

_'__Hey,' she says; a light warning._

_I know she doesn't like it when I curse, and I've been trying really hard not to ever since she told me that. But the way those boys acted…knowing that she's like this because of them…it makes me want to destroy each and every one of them, slowly and painfully._

_'__Okay. So they were jerks,' I say resignedly. _

_But even though she's still upset, she keeps on talking, knowing that I'm concerned even though I don't quite know how to show it._

_'__I just feel like…everything here is so different. Being an exchange student…it's harder than I ever thought it would be. I miss Poland. I miss my family. I need to learn a whole new way of living. And I_ _feel out of place. I feel different. I feel like people see me differently. And treat me differently. Because they don't understand,' she can't even look at me. _

_'__Annika…' I start. _

_Then I stop._

_She turns her blue eyes to me again, 'No one calls me that here.'_

_'__Well,' I fumble for an excuse. I actually hadn't meant to say it, but…I kind of like the way it sounds. And so that's what I say, 'I like it. And…you're not out of place, okay?'_

_'__I am.'_

_'__Not here,' I tell her, and my words are more forceful. Because I need her to understand this. I need her to understand how much I care, 'You are not out of place here. I'm here for you. And I don't care that other people are judgmental…jerks. I don't care that people expect you to change. Because you shouldn't have to change. You're who you are. And you're…' I stop again._

_'__What?'_

_There are a million things I could say._

_Could._

_Don't._

_'__You're strong. You can get past this. And I'm here for you. I promise.'_

_She's silent for a moment, 'Do you really like my name?'_

_Her question catches me off guard, 'Yeah. Why wouldn't I?'_

_She shrugs, 'Sometimes I don't think it describes me very well.'_

_'__What's that supposed to mean?'_

_''__Annika' means grace. I'm a klutz,' she says simply._

_I don't like that she thinks like this, but I don't know how to tell her otherwise. Because even I have to admit, she was kind of clumsy today. _

_But…grace. _

_It's interesting. _

_I never would have guessed that's what it meant, and I ask, 'So then 'Annika' is Polish, right?'_

_When it comes out of my mouth, I realize how stupid I sound. _

_She's Polish._

_Of course her name is freaking Polish._

_But she just looks at me with this expression I can't quite put my finger on and says, 'Well, really, it isn't completely Polish. The name itself actually has Swedish and Dutch roots. My mother was from Sweden, and she met my dad in Poland, so that's where mine came from.'_

_'__So you're Polish and Swedish,' I muse aloud, 'What does that make you then? If you put both of the words together, you still really end up with either Polish…or Swedish.'_

_She ponders this for a moment, but eventually says with a laugh, 'I don't know.'_

_And I'm glad she seems to lighten up…_

_But of course, just when it's all starting to look better, we run out of things to talk about._

_Things to distract her._

_And she sighs once more, 'This still doesn't change the fact that other people think I'm weird.'_

_She's still upset. And although her eyes are dry, they're still puffy from crying. _

_I miss the way they light up._

_The way they just seem to sparkle when she's happy._

_And before I know what I'm doing, I'm holding out my arms._

_And she doesn't even hesitate._

_Now we're completely tangled together, and her head is on my shoulder, and she's warm._

_She's really, really warm._

_And…_

_I like it._

_My arms are wrapped around her. _

_We're so close that I can feel her heart beating._

_And I want her to know she's safe._

_That I'll protect her._

_That she's going to be fine._

_And I don't know what has gotten into me, but I act on impulse._

_I move my head, ever so slightly._

_I press a kiss to the top of her red hair._

_And I tell her._

_'__I'm here. Everything's going to be okay.'_

* * *

Well.

That one hurts.

A lot.

"'Annika'?"

My daughter's confused voice floats through the room.

"Uh…" I seem to be at a loss for words, "Well, let's just say…it's the Polish version of your name. Or…Swedish?"

I don't know exactly how to explain it.

Because now it's all the same to me.

Polish.

Swedish.

_Annika_.

"We're not Swedish. Or Polish," Anna points out, "So how do you know that?"

I don't know what to tell her.

So I tell her the truth, "An old friend told me that. And that was how I addressed her. When she was upset."

"She was upset?"

"Very," I say.

"And you wanted to make her feel better, too," Anna says.

"Yes, I did_._"

"So then you cared about her. Like you care about me," Anna says.

This trip down memory lane is suddenly starting to take its toll, and I don't want to say much more. But Anna's just begun to stop worrying about her own problems, so I need to shift the topic as cautiously as possible, so as not to resurface any more of her tears. And I chose my words very carefully, "Let's just say…she was my Annika before you came along. She was a very, very good friend."

And then I put up a barricade. Against the thoughts.

Because these memories…they're leaking again, and they hurt enough finding their way into my head.

Next thing I know they'll be pouring from my mouth; my words.

And I can't have that.

I can't.

* * *

**A/n: So more of the backstory….little bits and pieces here and there. I'm beginning to think that, so far, her memories are my favorite part of this whole story, and I really can't wait until I can start tying them all together.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

They've done it.

These memories.

They've destroyed me.

And…I've done something that can never be taken back.

Something unforgivable.

"You never loved Papa."

Her voice—it kills me. She hasn't called him that in years.

And Anna's words are harsh and accusing this time. They are an arrow, straight through to my core, where every little shard I've managed to salvage has suddenly shattered, flinging this way and that.

And one, if not many of them, has pierced my enraged fifteen year old daughter. Right in the heart.

What have I done to her? All because I couldn't handle it anymore.

All because it wasn't what I wanted.

I have the urge to scream; I bite down on my lip.

I have the urge to release a torrent of curses; I can't.

I can't say things like that.

Not in front of my daughter.

And because _she _wouldn't want me to.

I am breaking.

I _am _broken.

Why, oh why, could I not have kept up the façade for Anna? My beautiful daughter whose life I have now wrecked.

It wasn't enough for me to just go ahead and wreck my own; I've destroyed hers too.

And I don't have an answer for her—I don't have an excuse.

"Anna," I whisper, holding back tears, "It's complicated."

"You never loved him. You never loved him!" she screams, "Why else would you get divorced!?"

I couldn't.

I just couldn't.

It was too hard to conceal, knowing where I should be. Want to be….

Knowing, and faced with the constant, agonizing reminder of what could never be.

"Do you even love me?" she seethes.

My tears are pouring now, as are hers.

We are both broken.

But I fight on. Fight to remain calm.

I almost laugh at this.

Calm.

It's something I may never feel again.

"Anna, of course I love you. And there was a time when I loved your father, too. Sometimes…a person's heart is large enough for everyone—_anyone_. And other times…it's not. For a long time, mine was big enough. I made it big enough…" I offer meekly, knowing it's far from enough.

Far from what she deserves.

Because no amount of words can change this.

_Change it_.

* * *

_We're at a restaurant for dinner._

_Some Italian place._

_Her other friend was supposed to come. Kristoff. But something came up, and he's not here. I'm fairly certain it has something to do with a so-called reindeer currently running loose on campus—information I know courtesy of a text from my RA. _

_But she makes no mention of the situation._

_And neither do I. _

_It's a little awkward, I guess. _

_Dinner, a fancy place._

_Just the two of us._

_She seems…nervous?_

_But when we start talking, she seems to ease up._

_And somehow, I find that the conversation turns to me._

_And my…eventual fiancé._

_'__What's his name?' she asks._

_'__Hans.'_

_'__How long have you known him?'_

_'__Since elementary school. Family friend.'_

_'__Is he…nice?'_

_'__Yeah. He is. We get along. He takes me to his friends' parties. He takes me to dinner…'_

_Dinner._

_That's where I am right now._

_But with her._

_And somehow…it seems…_

_Nicer._

_'__Do you like him?'_

_It's a simple question._

_'__Yes,' but… 'I…don't know.'_

_Her blue eyes are soft. Understanding. But her words are forward and harsh. They make me face what I know I never could bring myself to ask, 'Can you see yourself spending the rest of your life with him?'_

_I can't look at her._

_I don't know why this is making me so uncomfortable._

_But it is._

_Coming from her…it is._

_'__I mean, what if he snores. Or he's lazy and he expects you to do everything for him. Or you don't like the way he talks to you. Or what if you don't like the way he eats?'_

_She's crazy._

_She really is._

_And I can't tell if she's angry._

_'__I've been to dinner with him plenty of times. So I don't think that's a concern.'_

_She narrows her eyes, and I think she's going to continue to berate me, but she says the last thing that would come to mind, making me wonder if she ordered her drink from the wine list and I missed it, 'What if you don't like the way he picks his nose?'_

_Now she's smiling._

_And I can't tell if she's joking because she's trying to rebound from what happened, or if she's just…joking._

_But frankly, I really don't care._

_Because now I'm laughing._

_And she's not done. She sticks her chin in the air, as if she's proud of what I'm sure is going to be another quite absurd assertion, and adds, 'And _eats _it.'_

_By now I can't even breathe, I am laughing so hard._

_And she's laughing._

_And I love it._

_I love it._

_It._

_Her._

_What?_

_I freeze, but my world is spinning._

_I am stunned._

_And I am no longer laughing, but I am staring._

_At her._

_And she notices._

_And I know._

_I know._

_That I like him._

_But it's not the same._

_We connect._

_But not the same way I connect with her._

_He makes me feel happy._

_But she makes me feel…_

_Wonderful. Joyful. Free. Confident. Strong. _

_And…protective. _

_Nervous, yet fearless._

_Loved._

_She makes me feel loved._

_'__Does he ever tell you he loves you?'_

_Her voice, although quiet, rings loud and clear across the now silent table._

_My own voice is a whisper, 'Sometimes.'_

_She draws in a breath. And I can tell she's thinking. _

_About what, I don't know._

_But I hear her voice again and it's soft; it seems distant, 'You should change it. Come back with me.'_

_And it startles me._

_Where had that come from?_

_Then her blue eyes grow wide._

_And she speaks again, 'Did I say that out loud?'_

_'__Yeah.'_

_And she blushes so much that it matches her red hair._

_Her beautiful red hair._

_That I love._

_I love._

_I love her._

_But I can't._

* * *

In front of me, my world is blurred by my tears.

Like ice coating a window, everything I see is fuzzy; distorted.

Unknown.

Anna's eyes narrow. And at first I think she's going to scream again, but she looks pensive, and a long minute passes before she finally concludes, "This isn't about me. Or Dad. This is about _you_. Your Annika before me."

I let the words ring in the air for a while.

I can't deny it.

"Yes," I whisper.

One word.

One word, and I've suddenly confessed my life's struggle to my fifteen year old daughter who should be infuriated.

But instead…she envelops me in a hug.

How and why am I so lucky to be blessed with the most beautiful and selfless daughter?

"I'm sorry for what I said," she tells me, "I know you love me. And I understand—I understand now what you meant all those years ago. And I love you, too, no matter what."

"Anna," I say, "I'm sorry, too. So sorry—that I've put you through this. For being so selfish. I put myself before you, and there is no excuse for that."

"You've put me before yourself for fifteen years. It's okay."

All the years of being unsure. Of being scared. Of being told by everyone—especially my own parents—how I should live my life. How I had to live my life. How it had to be the way they wanted it to be, and nothing more.

And now here, telling me otherwise, is my own daughter.

How both uncanny and beautiful it is at the same time.

"Mom," Anna whispers, still holding me tightly, "I've given some thought to it, and when I get to high school, I want to take Polish."

And I know she can't see it, but through my tears, I smile.

* * *

**A/n: Well….Elsa's finally taking a step in the right direction. Bonus points if you noticed that this memory is linked to one of the memories in chapter 1 :)**

**Also, I wanted to take a moment to say thank you to everyone who has followed and reviewed so far—especially to my anonymous reviewer, what you wrote honestly made my day when I read it! **

**And, as always, thanks for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

I never thought I'd miss that dog.

But I do.

I miss his massive head and obnoxious tail and slobbering tongue and the way he would try to fit himself onto my lap even though he's too big; the way he would hog all of the pillows and try to get my attention when all I wanted was to read a book, and even the way he would run and bark maniacally through the house.

Because maybe then it wouldn't feel so empty.

Anna stays with me for the school year, so that she doesn't have to constantly transfer.

But he gets the dog.

And I'm really very bitter about this.

And while I contemplate getting a cat, I just don't know.

I am a cat person.

But I don't know.

I don't know what kind of person I am anymore—don't know _who_ I am anymore.

I'm alone, that's what I am.

Well, I'm not really alone. I have Anna.

But when she stays with her father for the summer…_Then _I am truly alone.

And now summer is tinged with a sort of sadness that I can't seem to get rid of.

And the business…it's tricky now, but we're making it work.

But the most important thing is, Anna seems to be okay.

Right now, she's about to go to her last middle school dance, and she rushes to get ready, putting on different dresses and experimenting with her makeup. And I want to help her…but I've never been good with that kind of thing. I usually just throw something together and hope for the best.

But tonight, she really seems to care, and so when she comes downstairs with the final ensemble—a royal blue dress that's long enough for my approval, her hair done in a braid, silver heels (Heels! When and how has my daughter become so grown up?), and that pearl necklace that she still loves, I can't help but notice how important this seems to be to her.

And I also can't help but notice that it has already started pouring outside.

Watching my gaze shift to the window, Anna sighs, but tries to keep the mood light, so that I don't see how much it disappoints her, "It's raining cats and dogs out there."

Cats and dogs.

_Cats and dogs_.

* * *

_She's been invited to a party, and so naturally, she drags me along._

_Even though it's totally not my thing, and she knows it. _

_It's at a frat house, of all places, which makes me wonder how in the world she even got invited. _

_I never have._

_But she's so outgoing and…fun._

_And I'm socially awkward and quiet. _

_So yeah._

_That's how._

_I'm the one who drives, since clearly she doesn't have a car and we have no other means of getting there. _

_And when she gets out of the car, she keeps fussing with the hem of her green dress, smoothing out the wrinkles._

_It's a simple thing; a solid color, form fitting, strapless, and paired with a small gold belt. _

_But I like how it brings out her hair, and her eyes, and her freckles. _

_And I'm wearing a dress._

_A blue one._

_Simple, like hers, except the top of it has these little sequin things—and I hate sequins._

_And I didn't want to wear it, but she said she wasn't going to let me show up in jeans and a sweat shirt. So I'm wearing the dress._

_For her._

_'__Do I look okay?' she asks._

_I don't even hesitate to say it._

_She's leaving in a week, and I have to tell her. _

_At least once. _

_'__You look beautiful.'_

_I watch her face turn a shade of crimson beneath her freckles; slightly hidden behind the red hair that she has chosen to leave loose. _

_'__You look beautifuller,' she says. _

_And then she pauses and brings a hand to her hair and I know she's embarrassed because she's caught her mistake too late. She's impressively fluent in English for how short of a time she's been speaking it, but she has her moments when she forgets how to say certain things. _

_And it's usually when she's distracted._

_She ducks her head, 'That wasn't what I meant to say. You don't look fuller. But…more beautiful…'_

_And when she trails off, not knowing what else to say even though talking has never seemed to be a problem for her, I can't help but hold back a smile._

_I'm not going to laugh at her._

_But she's all flustered now; as she was when she strung together the incorrect word._

_And…_

_I can't help the funny feeling I have that it's because of me._

_It's kind of adorable._

_'__Cat got your tongue?' I tease her._

_Because I know that she doesn't quite understand any of the English idioms yet._

_And she looks at me all confused, until I can no longer keep a straight face._

_When she realizes that I'm messing with her, she rolls her eyes, 'For now I'll just take that to mean you're a cat person. And you can explain it to me later. You seem like a cat person, anyway.'_

_A cat person, huh?_

_I've never really given much thought to it._

_But…_

_I guess so._

* * *

Anna's still standing on the steps, and she looks worried.

And I don't know if it's parental instincts, or what, but something tells me that it's not just because of the rain.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

And she gives me _the look_.

The one where the parent is supposed to be able to decipher what message is really being conveyed by the façade of complete annoyance; the true worry masked by the overwhelming desire to keep it all inside.

She is a teenager, after all. What else would I have been expecting?

But the thing about Anna is that she's never really been that way. So in all of three seconds, she drops the charade, sighs, and admits, "My friends found me a date. For the dance. And…I'm nervous."

Oh.

Well, that would explain all of the extra care she's put into her appearance.

"You shouldn't have to be nervous," I tell her, "Unless it's not what you want."

She's quiet, "I mean, he's nice and all. And I talk to him at school. And it's not like we're going to start dating or anything. But…I don't know. I've never had an actual date before. Anywhere."

I wish she would have told me this sooner.

Maybe then we could have actually talked about it.

But in the little time we have remaining before the dance, I need her to understand one thing.

"Is it what _you _want?"

* * *

_We're outside._

_While the party rages on inside._

_And it's just the two of us._

_Even though it's close to midnight, the sky seems to be bright; the moon is shining and so are the stars, and the fact that there's snow everywhere causes our surroundings to be filled with a soft, light glow._

_We're quiet for a few moments, but then she asks me._

_And I know what she's talking about._

_The same thing I didn't want to tell her about from the beginning._

_The same thing she brought up in the restaurant._

_And I know._

_I know why it's bothering her._

_And why I didn't want to tell her._

_And why it bothers me._

_'__Is it what you want?'_

_I am silent for a few seconds before saying, 'I don't know.'_

_She looks me in the eye, 'Is it what _you _want?'_

* * *

"I mean, there's a first time for everything, isn't there?" Anna asks as she walks into the kitchen.

Although I'm fairly certain it's a rhetorical question, I confirm the answer anyway, "There is."

Silence.

Then…

"I'm…okay with it," she says.

"Are you sure?" I ask, "Because you don't have to go."

"I'm sure," she says, and she follows it with a nod, sounding much more confident than she did before, which reassures me.

But I can't help but be envious of how confidently she _can _make these decisions. I know it sounds absurd, but as the saying goes, you learn something new every day.

I just learned it too late.

Because I wasn't confident.

I never could be.

And now I wish I had been.

I _wish_.

But that's not going to change anything, now will it?

* * *

**A/n: Yeah, not sure exactly what to say about this chapter except that for some reason I really enjoyed writing it. Like, a lot more than all of the other chapters. Maybe it's because of that memory from before the party. I have a feeling that that night is definitely going to be expanded on in the near future.**

**Also, to Anonymous: I wanted to let you know in reference to what you wrote in your review that you assumed correctly, so no worries :) I was definitely talking about you in my author's note from the previous chapter. I feel like ****_I'm_**** the one being awkward by singling you out :p but for taking the time to write out something so nice, I most certainly couldn't pass up the opportunity to thank you directly! **

**And as always, thanks for reading! And reviewing and following :) You're all awesome, and knowing that you all take the time to read something that I've written really means more to me than words can say.**


	6. Chapter 6

The summer when Anna finishes middle school is by far the hardest.

Or at least, for the past week, it's started out that way.

The past couple of summers I had volunteered at the middle school—there were summer camp programs for the students. Just daytime activities where the kids could participate in sports, or art, or theatre, or pretty much anything else that the coordinators could imagine. But now that Anna's going to be in the high school, it seems kind of pointless to continue.

Technically, it was pointless these past summers, too. It wasn't like Anna actually participated in the camp. No. She stayed with her father. Two hours away.

And that's where she is now.

Today I can't seem to do anything but curl up on the couch and stare out the window.

I pull my knees to my chest in a lonely hug.

And every time the phone rings…I let myself hope that it's Anna. Wishful thinking—something that I allow myself to indulge in every once in a while. But it usually just ends up being an employee. A sales coordinator. The store down the street telling me that my order is in, and that they're only going to hold it for two days.

I resent the mechanical, almost robotic nature that this life seems to have. The way everything continues to go on, even when your own little world seems like it's going to crumble to pieces.

That's why I feel bound to this house.

Like no matter what I do, or how hard I pull, the furthest I can manage to reach is the window.

And the world I see before me is a mess.

Because _what have I done_?

I am completely and utterly alone, while I watch my neighbors walk their dogs, grill on patios, laugh and talk on porches, and play with their children.

Although in a way, I now regard it as a world that I no longer want to be a part of—in the sense that I'm not ready to just go out and move on. I'm not ready to toss it all aside; I can no longer pretend like it never happened.

And that's half of the battle, really.

The reason I feel bound is because I can't let go of the past. I can't stop _thinking_ about everything.

I can't deny that the memories have been hitting me hard lately. And most of them seem to upset me more than they do any good.

But the one that I can remember today may very well be the first memory to break that trend.

* * *

_It's the first day of class._

_And I know no one._

_None of my friends have to take calculus for their majors._

_But apparently, I do._

_It's not like I'm worried about it. I already spent the week before I moved back into my dorm reading the textbook, so the first three chapters are going to be a breeze. I know the concept of limits like the back of my hand._

_But the problem of where to sit—now, that one's not going to be so easy. _

_I don't like the front; I prefer the back._

_But…by the time I get to the class, all of the seats in the back are taken. And all of the seats in the middle are taken. And the only row that is completely empty is the very front._

_Oh joy._

_Slowly, I make my way to the front of the room, and take a seat. I pick the desk that's not perfectly in the middle, but the one next to it. The first row is bad enough; I'm not sitting front and center. _

_The professor comes in about a minute later. And he's just begun to go over the syllabus when the door opens—and not quietly, either._

_A girl I've never seen before, with red hair in two braids, a million freckles, and a green backpack thrown over her shoulder, has just flung the door open. She's wearing jeans and the brightest pink shirt I've ever seen. She visibly cringes when she hears the doorknob slam into the wall, and then makes an effort to shut the door more quietly than she has opened it. _

_The room is dead silent._

_Until an authoritative voice cuts through the sudden tension in a highly unamused tone: 'You're late. Maybe you should try setting an alarm tomorrow.'_

_Well, it looks like this professor's a real winner. _

_But regardless, I think we all expect her to do what the normal student does—duck her head slightly, mumble an apology, and make a mad dash for the back of the room. _

_Instead, however, she looks him in the eye and says, in an accent that I can't quite pinpoint and in the most cheery voice I've ever heard at eight in the morning, 'Oh, no, I definitely set an alarm. I was up before it. Actually, I've been up for hours. I just got lost. It won't happen again.'_

_Her tone isn't challenging, or tinged with even the slightest ounce of sarcasm. It's just…genuine. _

_And I think that surprises us all. _

_The professor gives her one more disapproving look before saying, 'Maybe a map will help next time. Take a seat, so that we can continue.'_

_'__Of course,' she says._

_And after a brief second of scanning the room, I watch as she walks right past the end of the front row. _

_And sits down in the very middle of the classroom._

_Right next to me. _

_I don't know why, but throughout the entire class I'm debating if I want to say something to her. I'm not usually the one to initiate conversations._

_And, being me, I decide against it._

_When the professor dismisses class, I rush to get my books together. And before I turn to go, she looks like she wants to say something to me, but I don't stay to find out. _

_And two classes later, after I've already bailed twice, it seems as though she gives up trying to talk to me. _

_But…_

_She still sits next to me the third day of class._

_And the fourth._

_And the fifth._

_Until one day…_

_'__Hi.'_

_I swear my heart is pounding._

_Just talking to people I don't know gives me anxiety…but I'm pretty sure that word just came out of my mouth._

_'__Hi-hi, me?' her voice comes out uncertain, as if she's surprised that I'm talking to her._

_I don't blame her, though. I've ignored her for the past four classes. _

_But all I do is smile and confirm, 'Yeah.'_

_'__Oh, um…hi,' she says hesitantly. _

_Around us, all of our classmates and the professor are leaving the room. But for some reason, I am perfectly content to sit here and start over. _

_Since I'm sure I've made a horrible first impression._

_'__I'm Elsa Arendelle. I…never really got a chance to properly introduce myself.' _

_I finish the statement, and am extremely proud that I've managed to say something adequate. But then before I know what I'm doing, I extend my hand. _

_Because I lack the rudimentary people skills needed for normal human interaction. _

_Handshakes are for business partners, not classmates, and unfortunately, my brain can't seem to distinguish the two._

_But instead of looking at me sideways like anyone else in their right mind would have done, she takes my hand, and shakes it for a brief moment before saying, 'I'm Annika, but everyone here calls me Anna. Anna Summers. Exchange student from Poland and an education major.'_

_And then she smiles, and I swear it lights up the entire room. _

* * *

Suddenly, the world around me doesn't seem as desolate.

And among the array of neighbors laughing and talking and playing, I see a hint of a reflection overshadowing everything in that little window.

My reflection.

But she's a woman I don't really recognize.

She looks awful, if I'm being completely honest. Shoulders hunched, hair a mess, circles under her eyes.

But that's not the foreign appearance.

That's not what's out of place.

What's different is that…she's smiling. In the midst of everything, she's smiling.

It's a small thing—a tiny upturned corner of her mouth.

And I've never really let these memories do that to me before. Normally they make me remember what could have been. What I left behind.

But right now...right now I think I actually want to appreciate what _was_. I want to appreciate the moments that made me laugh and smile for what they were.

Tomorrow I know I'll go back to dwelling on what I've done wrong. It's what I've always done, and it's what I always will do.

But at the moment, I feel somewhat free.

Maybe I'll go out tonight. I don't know where, but I'll get out of the house.

Because there comes a point in time where the limits that hold you down don't seem as powerful and daunting.

And maybe today is the day that I test those limits. Just this once.

I don't think I'm strong enough to break them just yet.

But…test them.

Yes.

That much I think I can manage.

* * *

**A/n: So here's the deal with this chapter. I wrote it out, and then wasn't sure if I wanted to include it or not—one of the reasons being because it's kind of short. But I thought it was important to explore how they met, as I realized I hadn't yet included that. And I also feel like Elsa needs a moment where she can be happy, especially one where her memories can cause her joy instead of pain. Plus, it helps to set a better foundation for Elsa's conflicting emotions, which are going to play a big part in the rest of the story. **

**So if you like the angst, don't worry, there's plenty more of that ;)**

**As far as where Anna is, you all are going to find out. Very soon. And because of that the next chapter is going to be…a big chapter. So do with that little piece of information what you will :) **

**Thanks for reading!**


	7. Chapter 7

Flash forward two months, and Anna's staying with me again for the school year.

As a matter of fact, she just got here yesterday.

And now she's just gotten home. From school.

"So how was your first day of high school?" I ask, placing two slices of frozen pizza in the microwave. I don't know what it is, but frozen meals have suddenly become staples in my life. Maybe now that it's just the two of us (or just me), I've lost the desire to actually cook.

"It…wasn't bad," Anna says, setting her backpack down on the floor.

Funny how the one thing I think is that that dumb dog would have been rushing to examine the bright pink new object invading the kitchen.

"Well, did you meet new people? Do you like your teachers?" I try not to sound like a nosy, overprotective parent. I genuinely care, but I don't want to come off as overwhelming.

"I kind of spent the day as Sophie and Claire's shadow," she admits. But before I can interrogate further, she says something that makes me stop in my tracks. Something that makes me forget anything that was going to come out of my mouth…

"And, um, about my teachers. I like them, but…I think you might like one of them in particular. My Polish teacher. Her name is Anna Summers."

….something that strikes me so hard I have to sink down into a chair and abandon the furiously beeping microwave that is now the metronome for my furiously pounding heart.

"What?" I ask.

But I heard her, loud and clear.

"Her name is Anna Summers," she repeats, "When she introduced herself, she said that at home she's called Annika, but that this is her home now. She has Swedish and Polish roots, and she talked about first coming here as part of a study abroad program in college."

"Oh my God," I breathe, not able to say anything else.

"And…I think there's something else you should know. Back to school night—you know where the parents go to meet the teachers and talk about classes and all that fun stuff? It's in two days."

And with that, she goes to the microwave and takes out the two slices of pizza. I hear the clanking of silverware and kitchen utensils as she digs around for the pizza cutter, and barely a moment later, she places my piece of pizza on the table in front of me. She gives me a small smile, tells me it's going to be all right, and then goes up to her room, leaving me to sit at the table in shock.

She's here.

Really here.

I can see her red hair, her eyes, her face, her freckles…

And I remember.

Everything.

* * *

_We get at least a foot of snow, if not more._

_And all I want to do is sleep, after getting the text that classes are cancelled; it's not my intention to get up at seven a.m. on a Friday if I don't have to._

_But…before I can go back to sleep, there's a knock on my door. And I know it's not my roommate, because she's already left to go home for the weekend. Some of us are fortunate enough to not have classes on Fridays; I am unfortunately not one of those people._

_I'm in nothing but my pajamas, but I don't really care at this point. It's a dorm hall; we've all seen each other at our worst. Mid-yawn and wondering why I'm even doing this, I open the door._

_And my jaw falls to the ground._

_She's standing there, dressed in a huge winter coat and boots and gloves and a hat and a scarf…and I'm in pajamas._

_And I'm suddenly very, _very_, self-conscious about that. _

_But she's smiling like crazy, which makes me wonder if she's got another one of her insane ideas, and so I try to ignore the funny feeling I get about having her see me like this._

_'__Can I help you?' I ask, wondering how she even knows which room is mine. She doesn't live in my building._

_'__I was wondering…do you want to build a snowman?' _

_Well, I'm not expecting her to say that._

_'__I…uh…' I try to make my mouth work, but it doesn't quite function properly, '…sure.'_

_I don't exactly remember inviting her in, but she runs into my room anyway._

_And I wonder how in the world I'm going to change, but settle for pulling a sweat shirt over my pajama top because she doesn't look like she's leaving until she's sure I'm right behind her._

_'__Don't you have a jacket?' she asks._

_I think I do, but I don't know where it is at the moment, and I know that the longer I take, the more people will be awake on campus when we go on this snowman-building adventure._

_But I feel bad for thinking like this._

_She's excited._

_And I'll admit it's contagious._

_So I go out without a jacket, barely pulling on my boots before she drags me out the door, and onto the campus quad, where I find to my relief that no one is out and about._

_But I shouldn't care._

_I don't care. _

_About other people._

_I care about her._

_And so we build a snowman; disturb the perfect snow with our footprints._

_She gives me her jacket._

_She has chocolate._

_And I love the way she laughs._

* * *

God, I am drowning.

Drowning in these memories.

* * *

_It's the first time she's been to a mall._

_Well, the first time she's been to a mall here, anyway. _

_When I ask her how different it can possibly be, she tells me she's never seen anything so large._

_'__It's three floors. Your dorm building has five,' I say, leaving out the fact that we are currently standing in only one of two connecting buildings of three floors each. It is, in fact, the largest mall in the city._

_'__But this place has stores and clothes and food and _wow _does it smell good!'_

_She acts like such a child, and it should really annoy me. But it doesn't, and I laugh, 'That's because we're passing the food court.'_

_'__I want a sandwich,' she says immediately, but she doesn't know where to look first._

_'__I think you should try a cheesesteak.'_

_I'm not sure why I recommend it. They're not my favorite, personally. But, it's kind of like a sandwich, right? Just…classic American._

_'__A what?'_

_I only smile, 'Come on.'_

_She follows me towards the line of choice, and we wait there for a few minutes before I order one for me, and one for her. _

_'__Here,' she says, and tries to hand me her money._

_'__It's on me,' I say._

_'__But—'_

_I cut her off, 'I'm not letting you pay for something you don't even know you'll like.'_

_She rolls her eyes, knowing she can't argue with that, 'Fine.'_

_Food in hand, we make our way to find a table, and the only one that we can see is one that is, rather unfortunately, located next to a large group of teenage boys. But we sit down anyway, across from one another, and start to eat._

_The look of pure delight on her face when she takes a bite of that cheesesteak is…adorable. _

_God, it's adorable._

_'__This is amazing!' she exclaims._

_I smile, 'I'm glad you like it.'_

_While we eat, she tells me a lot about her family. _

_Her home._

_Poland._

_I can't exactly help but notice the boys next to us staring when she talks._

_She doesn't._

_I listen to more of her stories._

_She tells me that she's from a really small town._

_She grew up on a farm. _

_She has a Fjord horse, and I'm not exactly certain what this means—if that's his name or his breed—but I don't ask because I can't get a word in edgewise._

_I don't mind, though._

_Because I think I could listen to her talk all day._

_And then suddenly she's explaining something, rushed; excited. And she's trying to talk with her words and her arms and her hands all at the same time, and I feel one of those hands connect slightly with my face._

_This earns a laugh from the group of boys._

_'__Oh, I'm sorry!' she exclaims, 'Did I hurt you?'_

_'__No,' I reassure her._

_I don't think she could ever hurt me._

_But…I'm not sure that I could reverse that statement and have it remain true. _

_'__Good,' she says._

_Then she gets up to throw out her trash, but she trips slightly—I don't even know what on—and almost goes down but catches herself with her hand on the table just in time._

_By this point, those boys are howling with laughter._

_And she knows._

_They're laughing at her—her accent; her clumsiness._

_I know she knows, by the way she has her head angled slightly downwards, and she twists the end of one of her braids around one of her fingers._

_And she no longer wants to talk about her family._

_Instead, she grabs her coat off of the back of her chair and says, 'Let's go. I think I saw a store with chocolate somewhere.'_

_And she offers me a small smile._

_But it's not her usual one. It's forced._

_And it's chocolate—she should be way more excited._

_I should ask her what's wrong…_

_I know what's wrong._

_I should strangle those boys._

_I know that's wrong._

_I should comfort her._

_I don't._

* * *

The pizza is cold.

I can't touch it.

I'm drowning.

* * *

_Blue dress._

_Green dress._

_Frat house party._

_And red Solo cups; in her hands, not mine._

_She never struck me as a drinker, but she never fails to surprise me._

_I know I can't let myself drink around her. _

_Lord only knows what I would do or say without control._

_I've lost track of how much she's had to drink, simply because I'm focused more on her than what's in her hands, but I don't think she's had a lot. I guess it doesn't quite matter, though, because she doesn't act much different than usual. _

_Talkative._

_Loud._

_Laughing._

_I love it._

_Her._

_Suddenly, she puts her drink down, and says, 'Come dance with me.'_

_I stare at her incredulously, 'You know I'm not going to do that. Not in front of everyone.'_

_I'm too socially awkward._

_Her voice gets softer, 'Would you dance with me if we were alone?'_

_Would I?_

_'__Maybe.'_

_And before I know what's happening, she's dragging me past all of the other people, out the door, and then there we are, standing on the tiny, meager excuse for a driveway that has cars lined up both at the end of it, and all the way down the block._

_We are alone._

_And everything is quiet except for the music that floats from the open windows of the house. It's not music that I would really want to dance to; not music that I know how to dance to._

_Because it's a bit too loud for me._

_But…we seem to be doing our own thing. And I feel almost possessed, because I don't dance. But here I am, dancing in the middle of a driveway._

_Actually dancing._

_And I take her hand and I spin her around and her hair does this thing where it flies out around her and it's beautiful._

_She's beautiful._

_And when she's facing me again, she refuses to let go of my hand. _

_I can't ignore the fact that I like it; the feeling of her hand in my own. I look down at our interlaced fingers, and then back up to her eyes, which are staring into mine._

_Then her eyes shift quickly to the ground._

_A pause._

_'__Is it what you want?'_

_I know she's talking about him. And I notice that whenever she brings it up, she can't say his name._

_Maybe that makes it seem less harsh; less real._

_I am silent for a few seconds before saying, 'I don't know.'_

_She looks me in the eye, 'Is it what _you _want?'_

_No. _

_'__I don't know.'_

_'__Do you like him?'_

_Yes…and no._

_'__Maybe.'_

_'__Do you love him?'_

_Well…no. _

_At least, definitely not the way I love…_

_Her. _

_'__Maybe.'_

_It's the only word I'm going to say, and it's frustrating her._

_I know it._

_And it's frustrating me, too._

_She looks to the sky, and I follow her gaze. _

_And seconds later—a shooting star._

_God, how cliché._

_But I can't wish. _

_Because I know what I want is impossible, and so I just watch as her blue eyes fill with awe at the sight. And the way they look, up against the sky…they are the moon, wide and bright, and her freckles are the stars, with a million different constellations traced across her nose._

_'__The sky's awake,' she whispers, and she smiles._

_And I am awake._

_So very alive._

_And I've never felt this way before._

_But it's wrong._

_It's wrong, and I can't do this to her._

_But her face is so close to mine; the moon and the stars._

_And her lips…_

_She catches me staring. And she says it, 'Kiss me.'_

_It kills me._

_'__I can't.'_

_'__You can.'_

_'__I can't. I can't hurt them,' my parents, 'I can't hurt him,' Hans, 'And…I can't hurt you.'_

_I can't hurt her._

_And I know that I will if I let this go further._

_Because I can't be with her._

_'__You can,' she repeats._

_I just told her I don't want to hurt her and she's still telling me I can? _

_No._

_'__My life is one hell of a screwed up mess, and I will not have you caught up in it,' I tell her._

_I want her to see that I'm only trying to protect her._

_It's not working._

_'__Is that really what you want?'_

_No._

_I am quiet for a moment._

_But then I say it._

_'__No.'_

_And it feels odd, because I've actually admitted the truth._

_'__So does that mean you can kiss me?' she asks._

_'__No,' I say._

_Because that would be wrong._

_'__Does that mean…Can I kiss you?'_

_Her words linger in the air, and I let them sink in._

_That would be…_

_Wrong._

_But, not _as_ wrong—right?_

_Right._

_Wait, right?_

_Like, right as in that statement was right, or right as in it's okay?_

_Can it be right?_

_I think too much._

_So I ask the question instead, 'Can you?'_

_'__I guess the proper English would be 'may I'.'_

_That wasn't where I had been going with that question…but suddenly I can't seem to remember where I am going with it at all. Because I am lost in her eyes, and her hands have released my own and are now around my neck. And I like that._

_She's waiting._

_And I don't know._

_I can't._

_But…she can._

_She can._

_It's still not right._

_But it's not as wrong._

_I answer her question with no more than a whisper, 'Yes.'_

_And when she closes the distance between us, it feels so right that I don't even understand how it can be wrong at all._

* * *

The house is cold.

So cold.

I am _drowning_.

* * *

_It's December tenth._

_Nine fifty eight a.m. on the dot._

_My eyes haven't left my computer screen. And they won't._

_Not until that plane icon in front of me tells me it's landed safely at its destination; a city in Poland._

_And I'm so unbearably mad at myself._

_Because I should have been there._

_She wanted me there—to be with her before she left._

_But I'm here, in my dorm room, instead._

_And I feel horrible, because all I wanted was to protect her._

_That was all I ever wanted. _

_But I'm a monster._

_A freaking monster, letting her in like that, and then shoving her away._

_That's how I thought I was going to protect her._

_But God, I was so wrong._

_So terribly wrong, and now she's gone and I can't do it over again._

_It's killing me, because I feel like I've abandoned her._

_And I'm no longer sure if my actions are more sufficient in protecting her…_

_Or me._

_Because I thought it would hurt her more if I had been there._

_But I was just twisting it all around. _

_To make it seem right for me to run from it._

_From her._

_And I am a monster._

_Because she wanted me there._

_She wanted me there._

_And I wasn't there. _

* * *

I am cold.

I am freezing.

I am drowning.

And I cry—I cry for hours.

Until I fall asleep; a darkness in which I can see her face, but I am too scared to move closer.

* * *

**A/n: So first, I was listening to the song 'From Where You Are' by Lifehouse, and I realized that it sort of described Elsa's life (in this fic, anyway) and this entire story really perfectly. And that kind of made me really, really happy. So you all should go listen to it :)**

**Second, I'm sure they sell cheesesteaks somewhere in Poland, but for the purposes of this story, Anna's never had one before and hasn't heard of them before. I've never been to Poland, so I wouldn't know how popular they are there.**

**Third…ugh such angst! That was half the reason I decided to include the previous chapter—I knew that this one was going to just be complete angst in the present day. Elsa is now just one emotionally conflicting wreck. But I particularly loved bringing the memories together, as a piece of almost every chapter so far is present in this one. **

**And on the bright side, now we know where Anna is!**

**As far as Summers being a surname in Poland or Sweden, I'm not exactly sure. It never really occurred to me…I kind of just went with it :p But if I had to guess I'd say probably not? But if it is I'd be willing to bet that it's not very common.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	8. Chapter 8

"We're going out tonight."

The comment startles me awake—wait, when did I even fall asleep? At the table, yet?

I look to the side, where my elbow is just barely about to knock an untouched piece of pizza onto the floor, and my eyes widen in realization as every moment of last night comes back to me.

My horrible dream; scratch that—my nightmare.

The memories.

Back to school night, that's now only one day away.

And…everything that this means.

_She's here. She's here. She's here._

"Did you hear me?"

I don't know what to make of Anna's tone. She's standing by the counter with her arms crossed—after sixteen years I've realized that she only does this whenever she's dead set on getting something done.

"I heard you," I say, pushing the chair back from the table and standing up.

But I don't want to go out. I can't. I won't.

"You're getting out of the house," she insists.

I walk past her to put the untouched pizza in the trash, and the empty plate in the sink.

"Anna—" I start, ready to convince her otherwise.

But then she interrupts me.

She _talks over me_.

And I think I surprise both of us when I let her.

"_Mom_, you're getting out of this house, okay? It needs to change. I've been here for almost three days, gave you news that should have made you happy, and you still seem miserable."

That's the last thing I want her to think. Forget about the news she brought—how could I be miserable when my daughter is living with me once more?

But all I can say is, "I'm not miserable."

"You sure look like you are," she argues.

I can't deal with this right now. She means well…but I can't.

"You're going to miss the bus," I say to her after looking at the clock above the pantry door, "We'll discuss this later."

She gives me a look, sighs, and picks her backpack up off the floor, "Think about it. Because you're leaving this house. It's happening."

I know I raised my daughter to be determined in all of her endeavors. But it looks like I'm paying for it now.

Once she's out of the house I sink back down into the chair.

I don't want to go out.

I really, really, don't.

I want to stay here, within the walls of my confinement, where I don't have to face what I know is out there.

_She _is out there.

But I'm scared. I'm scared, and it's for so many reasons that at the moment, I can't even pinpoint one of them.

I look back to the clock. No more than five minutes has passed since Anna walked out the door.

I don't know what to _do _with myself.

I can't just sit here and stare at the walls for eight hours until she come back home.

Coffee. Maybe that will help.

I get up and open the cabinet above the sink, but find to my dismay that the only thing left is hot chocolate. And I am _not _going down that road again.

I walk from the cabinet, to the chair, and back to the cabinet again. I thought I'd gotten rid of this pacing habit, but apparently, that's not the case.

I'm going to go insane if I just stand here and…and _worry_.

_One day_.

One day until this 'back to school night'.

I feel tears burning at the corners of my eyes.

I don't _want _to cry. I don't_ want_ to feel this way.

Anna's words fill my mind: _news that should have made you happy. _

I should be happy that she's here. Happy that I can see her again, but right now…I'm _scared_. I'm afraid of hurting her more than I already have.

And I don't want to leave this house.

It is in every way my support right now; _literally_, as I grip the edges of the counter until my knuckles turn white.

I bring one hand to my face, choking back a sob.

I don't want to live this way anymore. I don't want to live my life afraid.

But I don't know _how_.

In a moment of anger, I slam my fist down on the counter, but all it succeeds in doing is knocking a container over and—

"_Dammit_!"

The word is out of my mouth before I can hold it back, and I look down to my hand that now has a cut on its side.

I forgot to put the pizza cutter away last night and now I'm paying for that, too.

Thankfully, it's nothing deep. My hand just managed to catch the end of it.

I apologize aloud for letting the curse word slip, although I'm not really sure what good it does because I know she can't hear it.

She can't hear me.

I ignore the pain—it's what I've done for years, so how much different can it be now?—and place the pizza cutter in the sink to avoid any more mishaps. And when that's taken care of, I walk back over to the counter to assess the mess of sugar cookies that are now littering the countertop.

I can no longer even remember the day that I made them as I pick up each one individually and determine which ones are in a decent enough shape to join the ones that have managed to stay in the container. And as I stare at a particularly crumbled one, I can't help but see the similarity between that dismal looking cookie, and my current state of mind.

Wiping the crumbs aside, I clean the rest of the mess. I put the container back in its rightful place, and the broken cookie in my mouth. But I taste nothing.

I feel nothing.

Nothing but fear and worry, tinged with the lingering of none other than regret.

Oh, and the slight stinging on the side of my hand. I know I need to take care of that, even if I did deserve it.

So I head upstairs, knowing that it will at least give me something else to do.

I take my time cleaning the cut and covering it. I take my time methodically putting everything I've used back in the cabinet behind the mirror in my bathroom. I even rearrange a few things, even though it seems that change isn't something that sits too well with me.

Now I have three different shades of blue nail polish on the wrong side of the cabinet, and what I know could very well be the biggest change of my life looming over my head.

It's not a very comforting realization.

I don't know what to do next, so I shut the cabinet door, which leaves me to stare at my own distressed reflection. Because the bathroom is connected to my room, I can see the hallway behind me, and the small area where it spills out into the bedroom. And so instead of looking at myself, my gaze shifts to the white walls, and the various things that adorn them.

There are a few paintings. Pictures. But what I seem to focus on is the bookcase—wooden, standing entirely from floor to ceiling, and filled with titles that I try to read backwards in the mirror. The one that catches my eye is old. It's _really _old, and worn, and has probably suffered more rain damage than any of my other books, because all I remember is how heavy it was, and how it would never fit in my bag, leaving me to walk to class with it in my hands.

That book was a burden to carry.

_Calculus_.

That book symbolizes the burden of my life. But…I'm not going to think about that aspect of it.

Besides, I'm good at calculus.

Slowly, I make my way from the bathroom sink to the bookcase. I disturb the pristine order of the books, thick and thin alike, as I pull the textbook from the shelf, causing the ones around it to lean over and onto the others for support.

I flip through the pages; find the section on limits.

The numbers and graphs fill my mind, and I find solace in the fact that although infinity is indefinite, there is still a single, precise answer that can be labeled when this endless entity is considered alongside an equation.

_I'm good at calculus. _

I can occupy myself with problems that I know I can solve until Anna gets home.

* * *

**A/n: So I thought it was important, even though the memories are for the most part wrapped up, to spend a little bit of time writing about Anna—as in her daughter Anna, and how all of this is affecting her. The way the last chapter ended she was kind of just…****_there_****, if you know what I mean. And I feel like she's a much more important part of the story than that. So the beginning of this chapter (and the next chapter, as I've already begun planning it) are to make up for that :) **

**Also, the next chapter will pick up right where this one left off. I thought about combining them, but decided against it, even if that meant that this one is on the shorter side. The chapters were all meant to be short anyway. The previous one was an exception :p**

**Thanks for reading!**


	9. Chapter 9

The calculus book and the problems within it are far removed from my mind as I try to wrap my head around the one problem that I can't solve.

The one problem that I don't want to solve.

"If you don't get out of the house now, you're never going to get out of here in a day. And I'm not letting you skip this back to school night."

So _that's_ the ulterior motive for going out tonight.

Why does my daughter know me so well?

"It'll get late," I argue, "It's still a school night, and besides, you have homework."

"Part of my homework is reminding a parent to go to back to school night," Anna's face breaks into a grin even though I can tell she's getting frustrated with me, "Who would've thought that the simplest thing would turn into the most difficult assignment?"

I sigh.

It kills me to be this way.

I used to have a line drawn between the pain of my past, and my daughter. And over the past few years, I've done the unthinkable and blurred it. I've overlapped those two things, and so now when I give into one, I feel as though I am hurting the other.

But in giving into my daughter, _am _I really hurting the other?

She's trying to help.

And if I'm being completely honest, she's absolutely right.

If I don't get out of this house now…no, I do _not _know how I will ever get out of this house in one day. It's what was nagging at me before, and it's what's still nagging at me now.

The only difference is that she's put it into words for me to hear instead of to think.

"Okay," I say, trying to keep the reluctance out of my voice, "What did you have in mind?"

"We're going to a restaurant. Just out to eat—nothing overwhelming," she tells me, "I'll give you the directions. It's not far."

Can I do this?

How different can it be from the one night I managed to go out over the summer?

"I guess I can do that," I say.

"Great," Anna says, smiling again, "Because we already have a reservation."

* * *

An hour later I find myself standing outside of a quaint looking building.

I take in the appearance of the restaurant—drastically different from the buildings that surround it, as it is composed entirely of wood (making it seem a little more likely to have been in the middle of a town buried in snow, as opposed to this very shopping center in our small suburban city…)—and notice that the clouds that idle in the fall sky almost look like little puffs of smoke coming out of the chimney. The windows are outlined by pale green curtains, and despite the stark difference of the building, the open door is…oddly inviting.

A red mat displaying a cheery 'welcome' is draped across the front step, and I can just barely mange to see inside, where a hostess is standing, and tables and chairs are aligned neatly next to one another. Some are empty, but most are full, and from that open door spills soft music, laughter, and lots of conversations.

Oaken's.

It seems like an okay place.

"They're fairly new," Anna says, "I heard they just opened up in the middle of July. I thought we could give it a try."

All I can manage to do is nod my head—in agreement, approval, or both, I am unsure. But somehow the unspoken message is understood.

This is it.

Stepping across that welcome mat is going to be me submerging myself once more into…reality.

My daughter takes my hand and we step into the restaurant together. She's the one who talks; she's the one who gives our reservation; she's the one who says 'thank you' when we're told that our waiter will be out shortly.

_My daughter _is the one who did all of this.

For me.

And I'm sitting here petrified, scared, and ungrateful.

What hurts the most—what hurts _me _the most—is that she just sits there and puts on a cheery face like it doesn't even bother her. Like just getting me out the door is good enough, even if I'm being horrible about it.

But it's not good enough. She deserves more, and I can't lose sight of what's in front of me. I can't lose sight of what is first and foremost important to me, just because I'm stuck in this…fear.

When our waiter comes over, I manage to open my mouth and order.

"It's a nice place," I say when he leaves, meaning every word of it.

"It is," Anna agrees, "I'm glad you like it."

And _she _would have liked it.

I know she would have.

But I can't do that—I can't think about that here. That would defeat the whole point, right?

_Right?_

"So I was hoping that while we were here maybe you could tell me a little more about uh…her. My Polish teacher, that is. Anna. Or Annika? Whichever one she said she went by now?"

_Wrong_.

Anna's question takes me by surprise, and it must be visible on my face because she jumps in again, "I mean you definitely don't have to. But I'd…like to know. Eventually, anyway. Although I guess it's a little weird, because she's my teacher and all. But maybe talking about it will help you…deal with it a little better."

Okay, she has a fair point. Maybe talking about it _would _help me.

As long as I'm willing to help myself.

"I…Well, I _can_. But where do I start?" I ask, more to myself than to Anna.

She shrugs, "Why not the beginning?"

The beginning—calculus.

For a few moments I just let my eyes wander to the walls that are filled with paintings; to my glass of water that's sitting on the table practically untouched; to the other people in the restaurant who are eating, talking, and laughing. I look at those people and wonder what kinds of worries and fears they might have. I wonder what kinds of burdens each one of them may have been forced to carry at some point in life, because no one is fortunate enough to live a lifetime without enduring some amount of pain, no matter what kind. And I find myself wondering if those burdens are as heavy as the one I've suffered with for years.

But thinking about others isn't going to help me solve anything. The one at fault for my pain is none other than myself, and so only I can be the one to deal with it.

So once I've collected my thoughts, I prepare myself to talk. And it takes me another few minutes to even do this, because she's right, it _is _a little weird. Parents usually don't talk about these things in detail with their kids. And besides, am I even allowed to be sharing the background of my daughter's teacher with my daughter?

But no matter—something tells me it's gone well beyond that point, anyway.

And when I open my mouth to speak next, I start at the very beginning, like she asked. I start at the very beginning and tell her everything—okay, well _almost _everything. She doesn't need to think that partying and under aged drinking are things that I condone (Because I don't. They just kind of…happened). And she certainly doesn't need to hear _all _of the details of that particular night of the party.

Because _that _would be weird.

But I sit there and I tell her this partially edited version of 'everything', enough for her to understand how it all started, and when I finish, it's well past the time we've gotten our meals.

"So, can I ask you a question?"

"If you want," I say, "What is it?"

"Is that…" she stops and then starts again, "Is _she_...the reason for my name?"

I'd like to say that this question also takes me by surprise…but it doesn't.

Because actually, I find myself more surprised that it hasn't come up sooner. And I know the answer. But…that doesn't mean my daughter's going to like it.

I know I can't keep anything from her. She deserves to know, no matter the outcome. So hesitantly I say, "Yes."

Her response comes a little later, as if she's contemplated my answer. But the word that she chooses to reply with is hard to read, "Oh."

"Is that…something you're uncomfortable with?" I ask, because even though tonight is supposed to be about helping me, I'm still her mother. And I know that everything I've admitted is probably hard for her to understand. If it was hard for _me _to accept, well…I can't even imagine what's going through her head.

"No," she tells me, and her tone is serious. She looks at me and says, "And I don't want you to think you were wrong for doing that, either. She sounds like a wonderful person—she's a pretty great teacher, too—and honestly, I'm honored to be named after someone who means so much to you."

God, she's going to make me cry all over again. She's so young, yet the amount of wisdom she has is unfathomable.

We stay just long enough for the waiter to ask if we want dessert.

Anna had told me earlier during the car ride over that they already had a reputation for their chocolate cake. And I know that it's been a night of new experiences and learning and accepting but chocolate…is something that I know I can't handle.

Not just yet, anyway.

Anna seems to understand, though, when I politely decline and ask for the check. And then we head for the door. Once we're in the car, she asks me another question, "So…this means that I have one assignment that I'm not going to fail, right?"

And she's asked it so artfully—so subtly—that it takes me a moment to understand what she's really talking about.

But then I realize.

Back to school night—the assignment to remind me to go.

To _get _me to go.

"Yes," I reassure her with a smile, "This is definitely one assignment that you're not going to fail."

One assignment that she's passed with flying colors, actually.

* * *

**A/n: So now that the memories are complete, and Elsa's finally been convinced to go, the only thing that's left to write about is what you all have, I am sure, been eagerly waiting for :) **

**That being said…I also want to let you all know that the next chapter is going to be the last one. And I know—most fics are a lot longer. But with the style I've found with this particular story, I feel as though ending with the events of the next chapter will be appropriate. Especially given the fact that all of the memories are wrapped up and that the memories were really the center of the whole story. **

**Anyway, I want to tell you all this now, instead of throwing it abruptly into the end of the next chapter. **

**Also, about the title selection—it actually isn't in reference to a particular song or movie. But at the same time, it definitely isn't a random choice! I can say for a fact that the title carries an immense amount of meaning for the story as a whole, and because of that, it's going to be very important in the last chapter :) **

**And as always, thanks for reading!**


	10. Chapter 10

I feel as though I am being dragged down by weights; as if I am encased in something solid with no escape, like ice.

Actually, ice is the perfect analogy, because I am freezing cold and shaking although the warm September air blows mere idle winds.

I almost turn around.

I am so afraid that she won't recognize me.

That she won't understand.

That I'll hurt her.

But I open the door to the school, and make my way to classroom 38B—first period Polish. Other parents rush past me, but none enter the room which I am standing outside of, frozen, with my hand over the doorknob.

I am numb.

It would be so easy to walk away.

But before I know what I'm doing, my hand is turning the knob.

And I don't quite know where to look first, but familiar red hair, in two perfect braids, is just visible over a computer screen at a desk.

My presence has gone unnoticed. My heart is pounding, and it takes everything in me to sit down instead of doing two things on impulse.

One of those things is running out the door.

The other…is running over to that desk.

I sit behind a couple who I vaguely recognize. I'm fairly certain I've seen the father at some school board meeting, although for the life of me, I can't remember his name.

Anything to distract myself, I clutch the paper where all of my daughter's classes are mapped out, reading the schedule over and over again: gym, pre-calculus, biology, history, orchestra, and the very first is Polish, of course. Polish, Polish, Polish, Polish, in room—

"—38B. I hope everyone is in the right place."

My heart pounds faster. Is that even possible?

Her voice, with its distinct accent (although not quite as strong as it had been before), fills the room. But I can't bring myself to look up.

Is it because I'm terrified? Or because I'm terrified that it's not real?

"And I know that this is a high school class, and we're here to talk about your students and what they'll be learning. But in the ten minutes that we have together, I'd like you all to introduce yourselves and share something about your kids. Sometimes the best way to understand someone is through those who are closest to them."

I can't breathe. I'm shaking so badly I have to fold my hands on top of one another and place them under the desk so that I don't cause a scene.

And I count the parents; there are about fifteen until I'm going to have to speak.

Fifteen, until I will be forced to face what I couldn't before.

Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven…

Three. Two. One…

The room is silent.

I look upwards as the gaze—her gaze—shifts to me.

Her eyes widen slightly, but she says nothing.

And that terrifies me more than anything in the world.

But once I meet those familiar, beautiful blue eyes, I can't tear myself away. Instead, my mouth seems to speak on its own accord…

"My name is Elsa. My daughter's name is Anna. She's sixteen years old—"

…And then, it seems, it never wants to stop. Because as I picture my daughter in my mind, and envision everything she's done for me; how valiantly she stood by me and…_guided _me when I was at such a low point in my life…I know no amount of words can relay just exactly how wonderful my daughter is. But the least I can do is try.

"She is extremely talented. She always puts others before herself. She has an unfaltering ability to make everyone around her smile. She is courageous. Brave and wise beyond her years. And she is beautiful, in every way imaginable."

_Just like you_.

I desperately want to say that, because I realize—I realize that every word I've spoken can be said about her, too.

But I don't. Because when my whirling thoughts manage to catch up with my spoken words, I cannot even believe what has already come out of my mouth, although I regret none of it. If I had the chance to do it over, I'd say nothing differently. But even so, I am the one who breaks off our silent staring contest; our first connection in God knows how long.

And I can't bring myself to look at her again as she listens patiently to the rest of the parents who are completely oblivious to what has just transpired.

When it's all over, I have lost my nerve—all I want is to slip out the door as painlessly as I've been able to enter; inconspicuously, unnoticed. But my wonderful plan of sitting in the back forces me to be the last one to leave the classroom.

And before I can, a hand grips my arm.

And this is everything I have ever…

Hoped for.

Prayed for.

Dreaded.

I turn around, and our eyes meet again, and I wonder how I've managed to live without seeing that face, and the million little freckles that adorn it.

_Beautiful, in every way imaginable._

"Hey," she says finally.

"Hi," I say, noticing that her hand still hasn't left my arm.

I try to read her face, but I can't decide what she's thinking. Her eyes seem questioning, confused.

"So you were just going to leave?"

Her words sting me, and I can't tell if she's angry, or hurt.

"I…" I start, "I wasn't…Well, I was going to…" I stop short.

How can I explain everything to her when I don't even know how to explain it to myself?

But to my surprise, her eyes only soften, and a small smile comes to her face, "Cat got your tongue?"

And while I know she's only trying to make me feel better—trying to get me to lighten up—all it makes me do is _remember_.

_Cat got your tongue._

That idiom.

I never taught her what that meant, like she had asked me to. She had to learn it on her own. Because I left her.

I wasn't there for her.

And I know the guilt is visible on my face, and I watch as she takes in the unintended effect of her words, and she tells me, "Let's forget about the past. Okay? It's time to let it go. And…to stop running."

"I don't want to run," I say, "I never wanted to. I…I just don't want to hurt you," the statement I've now admitted for the second time, just now years later, floats through the classroom.

"Elsa, the only way you could hurt me is by shutting me out again. I completely understand that you had to do what your parents wanted. And…Anna…your daughter…you named her after me, didn't you? She's beautiful. A wonderful student. And she's the reason I've finally found you again."

_Brave, and wise beyond her years._

"Yes," my voice is no more than a whisper as I answer her question and continue on to apologize, even though I know it will never be enough, "God, Anna, I'm so sorry."

But before I can say anything else, she wraps her arms around me; an embrace so distantly familiar.

"Don't you dare apologize for anything. I found you, and I couldn't ask for anything more."

And then she pulls away, but not before pressing a kiss to my cheek.

And it's enough to melt that ceaseless worry, denial, anger, and longing that have raged inside of me for so long—enough to replace the icy dread with a spark of something I haven't felt in a long time: hope.

"You haven't changed at all," I breathe.

"Neither have you," she says, "Except…"

She stops mid-sentence, reaches behind my head, and pulls the braid so intricately twirled inside of the rigid bun free, letting it fall over my shoulder.

"That's better," she says.

We continue to stare at one another; I am determined to memorize the location of every single freckle on her face. Maybe it's from this overwhelming fear that this is too good to be true—that I may never see her again.

The clock ticks on.

I am missing my daughter's next class.

Class.

Right, that's why we're here.

I speak for the first time in minutes, "Don't you have another class?"

She blinks, "Well, lucky for you, Polish isn't that popular. So I only teach during first and last period."

Lucky for me.

I do the math—four classes between first and last period at ten minutes each, along with the fact that second period is now almost over—we have somewhere around thirty minutes before her next group of parents comes in.

_Lucky for me_.

Do I even deserve this?

A second chance?

I still don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive myself…

But she said she wanted to let it go.

Leave the past in the past.

But…I don't know what to say to her.

Because all I know—all I've ever known and worried about was, indeed, the past. And now…now _what_?

"I feel so old," she says finally, shaking her head in wonder and amazement, and laughing, although it's not her usual laugh. It's empty and far away, and as distant as the words that follow, "Where the hell has the time gone?"

And while her words are deep and contemplative, all I can do is stare at her in shock, and say, "Oh my God."

"What?" she asks.

"You…you cursed," I say, my voice incredulous.

"Yeah, well," she mumbles, "Don't get used to it."

I smile at this, "Don't worry. I don't think I could."

I find myself staring at her again, still somewhat in denial.

I take in the perfectly ironed black pants, paired with a long-sleeved green shirt that ruffles slightly at the bottom. She wears no jewelry whatsoever. And she doesn't have on a stitch of makeup—which is exactly how I remember her.

I, on the other hand, have just thrown on a pair of jeans and an old shirt, and it makes me feel the slightest bit self-conscious.

"Well," she says eventually, "Why don't we sit down?"

"Okay," I say.

I follow her over to her desk, where she sits down behind it and I pull up a chair to sit across from her. And I'm not exactly sure _how _to ask the question that I want to ask, but decide to just ask it as is, short, simple, and to the point: "So how did you…end up here?"

She doesn't seem to mind how straightforward it is.

"Well, when I got back I gave everything a lot of thought. I finished school, and found a teaching position not too far away from home. I wanted to move out, get an apartment, live on my own…but the pay wasn't good at all. And then…" she stops here, and picks up one of the pens on her desk, idly twirling it around in her fingers as she continues, "Things got really hard for my family. My father lost his job. And they had to sell the farm and move in with my aunt and uncle in the city.

"And I didn't have anywhere to go, really. All I had was the money I'd saved. So…I had two options. Either I could find a place there, and continue to just scrape by. Or, I could come back here, and see what kind of a life I could make for myself. So, I decided to come back. And that's how I ended up here. I did manage to get my own apartment, even though it gets a little lonely sometimes. You'd be surprised—three little rooms seem incredibly large when you're the only one in them, but it's something I've…managed to deal with. As far as work, I was in and out of a few different schools around other districts. I was actually teaching math, of all things. But then this district decided to expand its language program. And that's how I ended up _here_. At this school."

"So you just…left? Everything that you knew, you left it all behind?" I ask.

She sighs, "I did. I mean, how much different could it be from being an exchange student? I knew I'd have a better life here. And…" she trails off again, looking down to the pen that is now oscillating between two of her fingers at a speed so fast I think it's going to fly from her hand. But then it slows down. She doesn't look at me when she speaks, her gaze instead following the path that her hand takes to set the pen back alongside the others, "I never really stopped thinking about you."

Her words hit me hard. I am floored, "You sacrificed the opportunity to stay with your family for the chance to see…me?"

She looks at me now, "It's only part of the reason. But…yes."

"But how did you know? How did you know that I'd be _here_?"

"I didn't. I just took the opportunities that were given to me. It was an open door, a new chance, and…I took it," she says with a small shrug, "Now I know it was certainly worth it."

I'm not entirely sure what else to think. Or what else to say. But luckily, I don't have to, because she starts talking again.

"But enough about me," she says, and then she switches the topic with the most random question ever, "Did you ever get yourself a cat? I know I said you seem like a cat person, but I want to know if I'm right."

"I was thinking about it. But actually it was a dog," I tell her.

I avoid any mentions of 'we' or 'our' in my answer, because I'm not exactly certain how to tell her what has happened in the past couple of years. So I need to choose my words carefully.

"Was?" she asks. Her response is calculated, hinting at the one word that has betrayed me; the one word that is out of place.

And it seems as though I haven't selected my words carefully enough.

But then again…if I didn't know how to tell her before, I guess now is my chance, "He has the dog now."

When I say 'he', I can see her grow slightly more alert; sit up straighter in her chair.

"Oh?" she says, and although I can tell that she has intended for that single syllable to come out as haphazardly as possible, I can hear the blatant anticipation in her voice.

"Yeah," I say, "Part of the agreement. We're…divorced."

"Oh," she says again, and this time, the word is filled with shock and a bit of…_excitement_. "How…how come? If you don't mind me asking, that is?"

She says it innocently, looking down at her hands, and then back up at me, and I know what she wants to hear; the confirmation of what she already knows.

I look at her.

_Really _look at her.

And I don't look away when I say it, "I guess…for the same reason. I never really stopped thinking about you."

And seeing her in front of me, I realize how true my statement really is.

I _haven't _stopped thinking about her.

No matter how hard I had tried.

Because staring back at me is much more than beautiful blue eyes that are now filled with hope.

They are blue eyes that reflect everything, no matter how painful it is to remember…

_Wonder and amazement; trips to a mall; Poland; calculus and equations; Italian restaurants; cheesesteaks; snowmen, snow days, and the cold; but warmth, too; movies I've watched thousands of times on repeat; abandoned airports; talking without thinking; chocolate; dresses, and laughing, and dancing, and spinning._

…And _Anna_.

And I know that my daughter is my Anna, but _she _is my Anna, too.

_Annika_.

Anna.

I know how important it was for her to hear those words; how much they mean to her. And although I know I've made her beyond happy with that single sentence, I think I have an idea that will make her even happier.

"So," I say, "I was thinking."

"Were you?" she smiles, teasing me, "You do an awful lot of that."

"You'll like the outcome," I tell her, "I promise."

"Well, go ahead then," she crosses her arms and leans back in her chair, teasing smile still on her face, "Tell me what you've been thinking."

"There's a particular restaurant, not too far from here. It's called Oaken's. And I've heard that, of all things, they're known for having the best chocolate cake. I never really found out for myself if this was true, because a certain someone years ago changed my perspective on all things chocolate. Commercial brand is _way _too sweet. But…since she's sitting here with me right now, I figured that it would only be appropriate for us to maybe go together to see if this chocolate cake could possibly live up to our standards?"

My heart is pounding in my chest.

God, did I just ask her out?

On a…date?

I watch as her eyes fill with delight at the idea, and a smile spreads across her face, "Well, in that case, _she _will gladly accept the invitation."

"Are you free on Saturday?"

"Yes," she answers without hesitation, and her smile only grows.

After all these years, I am so glad that I can once again be the cause of something she is excited about. Her joy is contagious.

_An unfaltering ability to make everyone around her smile._

And while I think I could spend the rest of the night smiling back at her, I remember the reason we're here, and turn (reluctantly) towards the clock. When I see the time I say, "But now if I recall correctly I think that you've got another class of parents to introduce yourself to in about ten minutes."

She nods, "Yeah. I guess I do."

Both of us stand after she says this, and we're about to walk over to the door, when she, being her infamous self, trips over the wires of the computer.

I am quick to react, catching her by the shoulders before she can go down.

And suddenly, her face is so close to mine.

So, _so _close.

And she's not looking up at me, but I hear the pattern of her breathing shift from steady, to slightly quick and irregular, and something tells me it's not because she almost fell.

My own heart pounding as erratically as she seems to be breathing, I tilt her downcast chin upwards with one finger, and press the lightest kiss to her lips. It's an impulsive action, yet it feels just as natural and instinctive as it had to catch her before she could fall.

When we separate again, a small blush appears beneath the freckles on her face, which matches the one that I am sure has spread across my own. Her hand flies to one of her braids—her nervous habit that hasn't gone away—and she says with a small laugh, "Guess I'm still the picture of sophisticated grace."

But, despite the blatant sarcasm behind her comment, there is something about the way she says it that makes me realize.

She _is_.

She _is _the picture of sophisticated grace.

My state of grace.

In which I am…

Whole.

Safe.

Free.

I don't need to worry about what is wrong, because it is_ right_.

I can breathe.

I can feel.

_I can love_.

I love her.

I know I do—I always have.

And she knows it.

But I tell her anyway, because I can.

"I love you," I say.

And I don't know what is more beautiful—the fact that I am finally free to say it, or the way she says it back.

* * *

**A/n: So yep, there's the significance of the title—directly linked to the meaning of Annika's name :)**

**I know that not all questions regarding their future together are completely answered, but I really do feel like the ending fit with the style. And because the heart of this fic was the memories of the past, it just didn't seem right to embark on a whole new journey in the present. But I think we can all infer, though—Elsa's divorced, Anna's single, they're going on a date…it really is Elsa's second chance. And one that we now know she's not going to take for granted.**

**However, that being said, I'm actually considering the idea of a possible sequel—but nothing too extensive. Most likely, it'll be a one-shot. But nothing is definite, and _if _it happens, it probably won't be for a little while.**

**I also have another Elsanna fic in mind that I've kind of already begun writing, so you all can look out for that as well. And I can promise that it will be much longer than this one.**

**So, aside from all of that, thank you all so much for reading and reviewing! Writing this has been an amazing experience, especially since it was my first fanfic. And I can't thank you all enough for all of the support :)**


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